A Glimpse of Silver
by The Harlequin Pirate
Summary: One egg has been kept hidden from Galbatorix throughout his reign. As the identity of the new rider comes to light, Murtagh encounters some harsh decisions as he finds her fate in his hands. Re-write of A Silver Hope - Prog darker Murtagh.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a rewrite of my first fanfiction; It's "A Silver Hope" V.2, if you like.**

I hadn't updated the original story for about three years before I started this. I'm re-reading the books (after a VERY long time) now that the last one is being released and I had the urge to go back to this little long lost story of mine. Only I didn't want to simply add a few new chapters, 'cause I'd like to think my writing's improved a little within three years, and I saw a load of problems with the earliest chapters. So I'm rewriting the whole thing! :)

I've altered a few things: Lyra is a couple years older. This is mainly 'cause I'm a couple years older and I want this take to be a little more mature. I've completely scrapped my first chapter, re-thinking it to include more of her background (maybe a little too much, it goes on for a while). And then i've smooshed the 2nd and 3rd chaps in with the first to create one super-chapter for you all. Enjoy!

AND - I've realised that, for an OC introduction, this chapter's quite long; especially if you're not particularly interested in OC's. So, instead of editing and cutting it, I'm letting you know that if you're not one to enjoy 5000 words of OC background, you're free to join Murtagh + Thorn in Chapter Two :)

:::::

"Don't go, Lyra!" The children trilled, forming a pleading harmony.

Lyra tried to shush them. "Stop worrying about me," she told the small crowd gathered about her waist. "I need to do this, and I _can _do this. I'll be fine."

"But you might get caught!" one small, downcast boy objected. Lyra gave him a consoling smile and tousled his hair before gently pushing her way out of the group of ragged children. She looked around the room, feeling all eyes upon her. Not only the children stared, but the teens too, with sorrowful and slightly accusing stares.

"I never thought you'd actually do this," an older girl, Camri, admitted. "It's too dangerous. I don't see why you can't try at some other mansion. Or why I can't come with you."

Lyra sighed and crossed the dingy basement. It was full of dirty bedrolls and crates, and scattered with a child's battered treasures; torn dolls, odd pebbles and other worthless but adored trinkets littered the floor. Camri was sat on her mound of blankets on top of some low crates. Lyra perched next to her friend. "Look 'round," Lyra told Camri, gesturing to the peeling walls and damp floor. To the hungry and homeless children of Dras Leona in front of them, coated in rags dirty with the grime of the streets. "I can't put this off any longer - we're _starving_."

"Aye, but to break into Marcus Tabor's damned _palace_, Lyra. It's madness!" exclaimed Anthony, crouched on a bedroll next to them. A boy not a year younger than herself, Lyra had known Anthony for a long time and trusted him with her life. At sixteen, Lyra was the oldest of this ragtag group of a dozen thieving urchins, and so had taken responsibility for them.

Lyra shook her head as she stood. "It makes perfect sense. Who knows the walls of a palace better than a child who's spent her life living in their shadow?" Camri opened her mouth with what looked like a very stubborn answer, so Lyra interrupted. "Oh, hush Camri! I'm going whatever you say. And Im not taking any of you with me. This isn't gonna be easy, and two heads are easier to spot than one."

Lyra swung a dark cloak over her grey shirt and leather breeches, then fastened a belt equipped with a pair of daggers and a cloth pouch around her hips. She kissed a few of the younger children on the forehead, then had to prise their little fingers off her shirt. "I know you think it," Lyra said hotly, straightening up to face her gang as a whole, "but you don't have to make me feel as if I'm heading to my own bloody funeral."

There were a few weak smiles. Anthony stood, handing Lyra her shortbow and quiver with grim eyes. Lyra swung them over her shoulder and pulled Anthony into her arms. With him being a fair few inches taller, she spoke into the hollow of his neck. "If anything happens, I want you to take over, alright? This lot need you, so no stupid rescue attempts."

They released each other. "I ain't promising to forget about you," he told her flatly, and she smiled.

Lyra's children wished her good luck one last time, then she left, emerging onto a dingy alleyway. On her left was the abandoned house she had just left. On her right was Dras Leona's city wall. The stars peeked out from behind drifting scraps of cloud as she wound through blackened streets. Lyra pulled her hood up, hiding wavy hair and large, grey-green eyes. The market district was deserted, save for the odd beggar, and she slunk through with ease. However as the houses grew larger closer to the cathedral and palace, guards began to patrol.

Hearing a heavy pair of footsteps approaching from an adjacent street, Lyra swung herself over a set of black railings, into the lush garden of some unknown lord. She swept silently over the lawn, cloak streaming behind her, and used the window ledges and drainpipes to climb up to the roof of the mansion. Rolling on to her stomach at the edge of the tiles, Lyra waited for the guard patrol to pass by the house; she spotted them easily by the torch they were carrying.

Once they had disappeared round a corner, she sprang up and darted over the roof, night shrouding her form as her well-practised feet dislodged no tiles. Though these homes were large, they were crammed in a tight terrace leading up to the palace walls. It was a simple matter to cross the roofs between her and the palace to reach it. She knew this street well, as many thieving trips led her here.

She tried to push away her apprehension, as it tugged at the corners of her mind, threatening her concentration. Lyra didn't kid herself; she knew it was no easy task to pilfer the treasury of the most heavily guarded building in Dras Leona. She did her best to put the dangers out of her thoughts. She knew the plan. The treasury was somewhere below the palace, away from the dundgeons. She knew that much from Camri, who used to work in the place as a slave before she escaped and was picked up by Lyra's street gang. Camri had also given her directions to Tabor's chambers incase the treasury was inaccessable. _Which it probably will be,_ she reflected to herself grimly.

At the end of the terrace, there was a gap of maybe three metres between the palace wall and the roof of the last house. Lyra crouched behind a chimney, eyes roving the area. Two guards were stationed at the gates, two more across the gilded courtyard at the main doors to the palace. Pairs circled the grounds, and four archers were stationed on the wall's battlements. The latter were the ones she needed to worry about, but any hope of reaching the treasury left her as she counted the guards. They would surely double within the walls.

Lyra crept silently towards the edge of the house. The leap from the roof wasn't a problem, but doing it unseen and unheard was, especially with little shadow to hide her once she was on the battlements.

Her eyes landed on an arrow slit in the wall. She noticed it must open onto a spiral staircase leading down from a watchtower. The narrow opening was cracked, the brick around it crumbling. She could fit through it - It was an ideal way to reach the courtyard and the palace. Decided, Lyra grinned and crawled closer to the edge of the roof. As the slit was below her, halfway down the wall, it wasn't so much of a jump she needed as a propelled drop.

The thief swung her booted feet over the edge, then pushed herself off, arms held out. The brief, heartstopping moment of weightlessness ended as Lyra's hands gripped the edges of the window and her body slammed into the brick. She gasped as the air was forced out of her chest, but held on tighter, grimacing as she pulled herself up to sit on the ledge.

Lyra took a moment for her breath to return, peering into the staircase beyond and listening out for guards. Cautiously, she slipped through the arrow slit and down the staircase, into the palace courtyard. She kept to the shadows, eyes on the two pairs of guards either end of the courtyard. _They're drowsy_, she thought, watching them slump against their pikes. _Must be the end of their shift_. Which made it all the more easier for her. She trailed around the light cast by a torch bracket, and into the darkness cast by a tall statue. She reached the palace wall without incident. Climbing onto the back of another statue, Lyra was able to reach a window ledge and she swung onto it, beginning her ascent. She resigned herself to the climb up to Talbor's rooms; a series of balconies and ornate stained windows halfway up marked their location.

She stepped silently onto the first balcony, and gently tried the double doors leading inside. They were locked. With a sigh, she kneeled down and produced a set of lockpicks. She made quick work of the door's flimsy lock, and slowly pushed it open. The creak it gave made her grit her teeth, and she darted inside quickly.

Peering through the gloom, Lyra saw that she was in Tabor's study; a large desk stood in the middle of the room, and the walls were full of books, scrolls and paintings. Experience told her that these rooms rarely held the kind of objects she sought. She needed a bedroom or a dressing room. After rummaging through the desk drawers and finding nothing of value, she slid to a door on the right. Wishing for some better luck in this room, she turned the knob and entered.

Lyra froze. Yes, this was the bedroom she was looking for. She tried to make out the bed - the blankets were disturbed, but was there somebody in them?

She slowed her breathing, and stepped, like a shadow, towards the nearest chest of drawers. There was a money purse and a few rings on top of it. Lyra swept them up victoriously, pocketing the jewellry and tying the purse to her belt.

The painting above the drawers had been knocked askew, revealing the corner of a plate of thick metal. Lyra hoisted herself curiously onto the chest of drawers, and lifted the frame from the wall.

A wide smirk lit her face, her eyes glittered. _Such a poorly guarded safe, _Lyra mused, pulling out a pair of lockpicks. The lock was suspiciously easy.

She gasped when she saw what the safe contained: a foot length of rounded, polished silver rock. She plucked it soundlessly from its prison, turning the smooth, shining surface over in her hands. What was this?... More importantly, how much was it worth?

Lyra was absorbed in her discovery, and was oblivious to the quiet footsteps behind her. She whirled when a frantic voice shouted.

"You!" Marcus Tabor barked. He was fully dressed, though dishevelled and unshaven. "Finally! Your name - What is it?"

After nearly dropping her treasure in shock, Lyra slipped the rock into the pouch at her belt and darted towards the window, unsheathing her daggers as she went. Now was the time to leave.

Tabor uttered some strange words. Lyra felt herself pushed sideways into the wall by some invisible force, and pinned there. She was feet from the window.

She cursed as her lord approached, a desperate kind of glee on his face. "You did it! You've got it, now you can take it, take it away!" He whispered hoarsely.

The girl stopped her struggles. The Lord appeared quite mad in the almost total darkness. _He _wants_ me to take this rock?_ "Well then, let me free!" she hissed.

"Oh no no no, not yet," Tabor said, wringing his hands nervously and pacing in front of her. He was a thin man in his early fifties, with papery skin and tufts of black hair. "I must explain. I've been waiting for somebody to take it for a long time. Made it as easy as I could! And yet, you're the first! You must listen!"

Lyra looked, disbelievingly, into Tabor's wide, watery eyes. She thought back to the easy locks, the only partially concealed safe. Her curiosity won out over her alarm, and she held her tongue.

"What you've just taken is more precious than you can imagine. You must never sell it!"

"But what is it?" Lyra asked, growing frustrated and uneasy. "My Lord?" she added, almost mockingly.

"No. I fear if I tell you, you will refuse..."

"Now I really want to know." Lyra began to tug against her invisible bonds again. "Refuse what? If you want me to take it, let me down!"

The lord raised one quivering finger, pointing at the rock tucked in her belt. "You must take it to Surda."

Lyra paused, stymied with confusion, and Tabor muttered something. The girl was suddenly able to move again. _Magic_, she realised with a hiss, and took a few steps backwards. Lyra did not however, run for the window. She was far too intrigued for that.

"We must talk, quickly," Tabor told her. "Will you tell me your name?"

"No," Lyra said shortly. "But I will talk... m'Lord"

"Then sit," He said, gesturing to the chairs.

Lyra did not sit either. Instead she pulled the silver rock from her belt. Tabor lit a few candles, and she watched the light dancing off the surface of the stone. "I never seen a rock like this before," she said.

"It is no rock," Tabor said.

"What is it, then?" Lyra asked, uneasy of Tabor and this unexpected situation. Why wasn't he calling for guards? "I'm not doing nothing with it if I don't know what it is. You said it was important."

Tabor sighed. "How old are you, Thief? How skilled?" Lyra remained silent, so he continued. "I'm merely trying to judge whether you are the right person for the task. I hadn't imagined that the thief who would claim this particular treasure would be a girl as young as you." He regarded her with a distrustful gaze in the candlelight.

Lyra ignored this. He wouldn't be getting it back whether he decided if she was worthy or not. "It's no rock?"

Tabor shook his scraggly black hair hopelessly. "It is an egg," he nearly wailed.

The girl raised her eyebrows. This looked this no egg she had ever seen. A foot long, with the texture of polished diamond? She held the _egg_ closer to the candlelight. "My Lord?... I don't believe you."

"I did not expect you to. But listen," he whispered, and leaned closer. Tabor rapped the egg with his knuckles, the rings on his fingers producing a high, clear note that would definitely not come from stone. "You hear? It is hollow, but not empty."

Lyra stared, her lips slightly parted. She raised the egg to her ear, and struck it as Tabor had done, the metal studs on her gloves pruducing the same, impossible sound, if not clearer. As the sound died, another followed; an abrupt squeak. Tabor's eyebrows knitted together in surprise. Lyra spoke tentatively. "What's... What's that inside it?"

"You would not believe."

"No - I think I would," Lyra said. She could think of no other explanation. "This is a... dragon egg, isn't it?"

The Lord let out his breath in relief. "You understand. Now, please - take it from here. To Surda, and the Varden."

Lyra regarded him curiously. "Hold on - Why'd you have to wait for somebody to steal this? You could have just sent anyone away with it!"

"No, I couldn't. The King himself suspects me of hiding something of importance from him. He has spies, here. In _my_ palace. Do you recall when he came to the city, a year ago? Well it was so he could investigate himself. I still can't truly believe he failed to find it..."

"But... ," Lyra began incredulously. "Does this mean... are you a member of the _Varden_?" She found it hard to believe that Lord Marcus Tabor, Ruler of Dras Leona, secretly supported the rebel group.

"God, no!" Tabor replied, "I would never be able to conceal such an allegiance. I do not however, want to see Galbatorix in power any longer. What you are about to deliver to the Varden will tip the scales in this war. I never gave this egg to a messenger for fear he would run to Uru' Baen. The King's spies always seem to know what I'm doing, I couldn't risk it. I doubted, however, that any street thief such as yourself would have loyalties with their cruel King." Lyra shook her head, and thought about the urchins, sleeping in the cold basement of a long abandoned house. "I just knew I had to explain before I allow anyone to run off with it," the Lord said, "so I laced spells around the safe that would let me know if anybody picked it up. You see, if it is stolen, it never had to be in my possession in the first place! Nobody would even know about this robbery if I don't report it!" The glee on his face made him look completely insane.

Wanting to get out of the room as quickly as possible, Lyra said; "Alright. I'll take it to Surda." She hated to leave her young friends, but this was important, an oppurtunity she would not pass up. In the long run, if she succeeded, she would help the Varden overthrow the Empire. The Varden were a group she had longed dreamed of reaching; she would travel to Surda, and escape the dirty streets she had been born into.

"Have you travelled before?"

"I've been to Belatona and Teirm. But tell me - how'd you get a _dragon egg_? Have you always had it?"

"It's been in my possession for a long time," replied Tabor. "My Father... he was one of the last dragon riders - one of the Forsworn. You know of them, don't you?" Lyra nodded, thinking of the tales she'd heard on the streets, telling of Galbatorix's rise to power and the fall of the riders. "He left me this over forty years ago, before he was killed. His own dragon was the mother."

Lyra gazed at the legend she held in her hands. She recalled some whispered rumours she had heard many times over the past several months, and had sneered at. "People say the Riders have returned," she said slowly. "There's a red dragon allied with the king, they say, and a blue one that flies for the Varden."

"Those rumours are true," Tabor said. Lyra's head snapped up in shock, but not disbelief. "I know," Tabor continued, "because last time Galbatorix called council with the nobles, he explained our standings in the situation with Surda. He doesn't think he has much to gain from keeping the Riders secret, and he couldn't in anycase, with his rider soaring in and out of Uru'baen. But yes - two. Murtagh Morzansson is the name of the King's Rider - he is the one you need to fear. I don't know the name of the other."

Lyra shook herself and headed to the window.

"Here," he said, and handed her a map. "But by all means, you don't have to take it to Surda! Bury it in the forest or drop it in the lake, just don't sell it - It could be recognized, and reach the king."

Lyra nodded to show she understood, and opened the window.

"Come back without the egg," the Lord said, "and I'll pay you with your weight in gold. I must thank you for this."

Lyra hesitated. If she ever reached Surda, she had no plans for returning. "No. There's something else you can do for me. In the abandoned house on Market Street, there's a dozen children I look after. They're the reason I came here in the first place. You can pay them their weight in gold instead. Even better, build them an orphanage."

Tabor returned her scorching gaze, and then nodded. Lyra swept from the room.

:::::

The girl's breath grew ragged as she left the palace behind. _This could all be a hoax_, she reflected angrily. Though somehow, she knew that it wasn't. Tabor knew so much about the riders, and nevermind that he was half insane - he was a _magician_.

Coming to a halt outside the house, Lyra pushed back her hood and knocked softly on the doors leading to the basement. As she had expected, Anthony was behind them, waiting to let her in once she returned. He grinned as he saw the bulging purse. "Yes! I knew you could do it! Everyone's asleep, let's go tell 'em you're back." Anthony took her hand and began to pull her down the stairs to the basement.

She took her hand away and retreated back into the night. "No I can't Anthony - I'm sorry."

"What's the matter? You're okay, right?" He looked her over for injuries.

"I'm fine, I just need to leave for a while."

He looked at her blankly. "Leave? What for?"

Lyra shook her head, and handed Anthony the solid gold rings she had snatched. Alone they would fetch a small fortune. Then she gave him half the coins from the purse, incase Tabor did not keep his word. "I'm going to Surda. I found something in the palace that shouldn't be there - I need to deliver it."

"And what's so important?" He asked, knuckles turning white over the trinkets Lyra handed him. "Surda isn't exactly close by. You're needed here!"

"I can't tell you. Just know that it is important. I wouldn't leave if it wasn't." Lyra did not have the heart, or the courage, to tell Anthony she was not planning to return. "It should take me about two months, there and back. You can look after them while I'm gone. What I stole should keep you going. And they don't need me at all - they got you, remember?."

"Fine," Anthony said, though he was clearly not happy. He gestured to the sleeping children downstairs, "You're going right now? What do you want me to tell them when they wake up then?"

Lyra gave a sad smile at Anthony's attempt at guilt-tripping her. "Tell them the truth. I've gone away for a while, but when I come back I'll have lots of coins for them."

"Is it goodbye for now then?" He said sourly.

"Not exactly," Lyra said and then looked down, scuffing her toes. "...I need you to help me steal a horse."

Anthony raised his eyebrows and swore at her.

"Please, Anthony! I'll be back before you know it."

"And why in the name of Helgrind should I help you run off?"

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Anthony's cheek. His expression softened immeadiately. "You're scared I won't come back," she told him. "But I will - I promise."

Anthony sighed and gave in. "Alright then. Which stables?"

"The Golden Globe isn't far," Lyra said, relieved, and she darted down the street. Anthony followed at a slower, more forlorn pace.

The sun was beginning to rise, dusting the eastern sky to a chalky lilac. In the distance, Lyra heard the portcullis being raised for the early morning travellers.

They reached the Golden Globe's stables within a few minutes. The only stable boy was asleep on bales of hay stacked in a corner. Lyra swiped the few coins out of his purse as Anthony led a sturdy-looking mare out of her stall. The horse's tack and saddlebags were hung in the back of the stall. They saddled her up together, Lyra disappointed after discovering the bags contained nothing more than a bedroll and some odd blankets.

Lyra swung into the saddle and trotted towards the street, while Anthony looked out for any approaching inn workers.

"Thank you, Anthony."

"Just go quickly," he said hoarsely. "And come back quickly, too!"

Lyra gave him one last smile, then turned her stolen horse to canter through the street. She didn't look back as she rode through the portcullis and out onto the road.

:::::

Darkness was falling once again, and Lyra was exhausted after a day's hard riding. Yawning widely, she led her horse off the road, into a patch of trees out of sight from the lake.

Lyra unsaddled the mare and picketed her next to some foliage. She made a small fire and sat close to it, warming her hands and face until the last dusty red cloud had faded from the horizon and the sky was Lyra lay back on her bedroll. She had a great deal to think about. The guilt of lying to Anthony and leaving her old life behind dominated her thoughts. Maybe she would return after all.

Pulling Tabor's map of southern Alageasia from her pocket, the girl inspected her route closely. All she had to do for now was travel south following the shore of Leona Lake, then the Jiet River, into Surda. From there she was confident that it would be easy to find a guide to Aberon, the capital. Lyra thought that the discovery of a dragon egg would be a matter that the King of Surda would want to be involved in. He, of all people, would know how to get it to the Varden.

As she folded the map next to the dragon egg in her saddlebags, the egg caught the flickering light of the fire and reflected it brilliantly, making it look not just silver, but gold, white and dozens of shades of red.

Intrigued, Lyra plucked it from the bags, and watched the light dance. Moments passed before she realised a faint beating was coming from inside the egg. She held it to her chest and pressed her ear to the surface of the silver shell, listening intently.

She could hear a heartbeat.

She froze in wonder. She knew it wasn't her own heart - hers did not seem to be beating. Could she really be listening to a dragon's heart?

A faint squeak pierced the tranquility in the clearing - from the egg. It was the same noise that she had heard come from the egg back in Tabor's rooms, after she had struck it.

Unsure of what to think, Lyra jumped when the squeak came again, this time louder. The egg began to rock. She set it down with shaking hands as cracks appeared in the shell. Moments later Lyra's eyes widened further as a small, spiked head emerged to the world, blindly squeaking its defiance. The rest of the egg split open with a resounding crunch, and the hatchling stumbled forwards into the fire light.

The tiny dragon was exactly the same colour as the egg, but it shone like the moon. Everything about the creature was slender; its head, neck, limbs, body and especially the tail. It fixed a pair of sparkling grey eyes on Lyra, and tried to take a few tentative steps towards her. It tripped on those oversized wings and fell.

As Lyra reached out for it, the dragon stretched and nudged her palm with the tip of its nose.

Lyra cringed and yelled out as icy pain jolted up her arm and spread throughout her entire body. It was minutes before the pain eased, but her palm wouldn't stop tingling. There, on her right hand, was a shining silver oval, same colour as her dragon. _...My dragon, _she thought.

"This is absurd," she told the hatchling, her voice shaking a little in disbelief. It simply cocked its head, gazing at her curiously with those twinkling eyes. It sat on its haunches, front paws resting on her legs. Lyra gently pulled the hatchling onto her lap and stroked his elegant neck, barely believing what she was doing was real. While she did so, she felt a strange presence against her consciousness. It puzzled her for a while, but when she realised feelings were emanating from it – that certainly were not her own – she guessed she must be feeling the dragon's consciousness... but that just confused her even more.

She pulled the spit of chicken wings from the fire and gave most of them to the dragon, who tore into them with the unexpected ferocity of a lion.

Tiredness called to Lyra once again, blocking out all other thoughts. She lay down, and fell asleep as the dragon tried to snuggle against her chest.

xxx

For the next few days, Lyra rode around the seemingly endless coast of Leona Lake. She kept away from the roads and villages, with the dragon in her lap. He was always wide eyed and energetic, constantly gawping and chittering at new things with intensified curiosity.

Lyra's knowledge of dragons didn't stretch very far but she did know some things, mostly little facts gleaned from stories she'd heard from various bards. She was aware that they came in every shade of every colour, were intelligent and had been in Alageasia much longer than humans. She had also listened to a minstrel perform a song about a war that took place between the dragons and the elves long ago, but she didn't know how true that was.

Although Lyra was utterly oblivious, the bond between her and the dragon was strengthening all the time. She found she was able to crudely communicate to him by vague emotions and images, though how it worked was beyond her.

She hoped she could find answers in Surda, and the person she most longed to meet was the rider of the saphire dragon. She was sure he would teach her what he knew, and she would be safe until she - and her dragon - we're strong enough to face whatever they had to.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorn glided high over Leona Lake, appearing to have caught flame whenever his crimson hide reflected the dying sunlight.

_Thorn,_ Murtagh said. _There can't be any point searching this far down the lake. A child can't have travelled this far in under a week._

_The girl didn't travel Murtagh, her horse did, _Thorn said pointedly._  
><em>_  
>Whatever. They can't have gone this far.<em>

_Well, what do you suggest? _Thorn's voice was irate._ We've been scouring the northern roads of Leona Lake for hours. There's only stinking fishermen and pathetic tradesmen. She is not there, she has to be down here._

Murtagh sighed and slumped against the dragon's shoulder. They had flown from Uru'baen three days ago, to assist the Ra'zac investigate a tip-off that told Galbatorix that Marcus Tabor, ruler of Dras Leona, had been concealing a dragon egg from him. Thorn hadn't slept or eaten since they had left. Neither of them had truly believed the spy's accusations against Tabor until they arrived at his palace.

Acting on the King's orders Murtagh had murdered Tabor - after extracting the nessessary information he needed to track down and retrieve the egg from the Lord's mind. Sifting through Tabor's memories, Murtagh scoffed when he identified the egg's courier - A young thief girl. She certainly did not look hardened, with her chestnut hair and large eyes, and she looked a few years younger than himself. _Easy, _he had thought. But now he wasn't so sure._ The girl can ride, I'll give her that_, Murtagh said, voice laced with frustration. _She's already proving to be a problem_. The only thing Tabor had known about the girl was her appearance and destination, and so that was all the information Murtagh had to find her.

Thorn did not reply. His wings ached; Murtagh could feel the pain in his own arms. They flew on. The evening turned to night, and still they hadn't found any luck regarding their search. Murtagh could feel his friend's wing beats becoming heavier and more strained as he battled the wind to stay airborne.

In the darkness this high in the sky, Murtagh's eyes were useless. He searched with his magic, examining any lifesource that he came across.

Until finally, when the moon had long since reached its peak and the stars were beginning to dim, Murtagh detected a group of consciousnesses that looked as if they might be what they had been looking for. They were settled in a small cove on the lake shore. It was far from the road, and looked difficult to find on foot. Murtagh quickly identified the first being as a horse and the second as a young human. That made him hopeful, and he directed Thorn over to the camp. The third consciousness however, puzzled him. The mind was small and new, though had a great capacity for intelligent thought.

_What do you think it is? _Murtagh asked, pointing it out.

_Lets find out. _Thorn circled over the cove, like a hawk searching for prey. The most Murtagh could make out were two shadowy blotches around a pile of dying embers. However Thorn pitched forward, his wingbeats disrupted with shock. He parted his jaws, and a low, startled rumble sounded deep in his chest_.  
><em>

_What is it, Thorn? What do you see?_

Thorn didn't just show his rider the image, he threw it at him. Murtagh saw the cove as Thorn saw it; as clear as if sunlight struck the rocks. Murtagh identified the gray horse and the sleeping girl, and then cursed when he saw what was curled up against the girl's chest_. _The consciousness that confused him was a _dragon hatchling._

_The egg hatched for the child! _Thorn snarled his disbelief. _This complicates things._

_Galbatorix will want her, _Murtagh muttered. _Her fate is no longer a happy one.  
><em>

_Assuming it ever was. Come, we must take her back to the King - at least he will be pleased._ Thorn locked his wings and tilted into a slow, spiraling dive.

Murtagh shifted uncomfortably. The presence of a second rider under Galbatorix was good news to him; she would share his burdens and his grief and his frustration. No longer would he be the King's only outlet. Some part of him, however, twinged with guilt when he thought of the pain and torture the pair would go through. No more freedom for them._ Can I willingly hand them over to my own fate?_

_Willingly?_ Thorn hissed mockingly. _What does _your will_ have to do with this...?_ He then added in a gentler tone; _You have no choice. Just get on with it._ Murtagh grimaced and grasped Zar'roc's hilt as Thorn sank ever closer to the gray rocks below_._

Thorn's talons clattered onto a large outcropping twenty feet from the camp. Murtagh dismounted_, _then jumped down onto the sandy pebbles below the rock. A shrill squeak split the air as Murtagh landed and he stumbled, unbalanced. _The hatchling! Must've been awake all along..._

_Don't do anything stupid_, Thorn told him._ We don't want them hurt.  
><em>

The baby dragon's tail and haunches were raised_, _its neck bristling as it tried valiantly to stare down the intuders_. _Behind him, its rider was getting warily to her feet, pulling daggers from her belt.

_He is a brave one_, Thorn said quietly. He stayed put on the ragged ledge, silently observing the scene as Murtagh slowly advanced towards the girl and her young dragon. She rushed forward and gathered up the hatchling, removing him from Murtagh's path. Thorn had felt all his tiredness chased away by the sight of another of his kind, but the thought that it must now share his fate suppressed his euphoria - however indifferent he had seemed to his rider.

The little dragon wound its way up to the girl's shoulders. It spread its wings behind her head, and screeched once more. The young rider stood her ground as Murtagh approached. He stopped within just four feet, a distance he thought she would surely be uncomfortable with. Murtagh was right; she took a few hasty steps backwards. He studied her. Everything about her was feral and tense; her stance, her expression, the fists clasped around jagged daggers, and the gleam in her eyes as she looked from Murtagh to Thorn.

_I'm impressed,_ Murtagh said to his dragon. _She's not what I expected._

_What did you expect - Some helpless farmer's maid?  
><em>

She glared at him, and Murtagh glared back. They stood still, waiting for a sign from the other. Neither did the dragons move. The only motion was from the girl's ragged cloak, fluttering about her knees in the gentle night air.

Murtagh spoke first. "What are you called?"

She did not answer, instead switching her bright-eyed gaze to Thorn. His hulking, black silhouette loomed over the cove, tinged red where the moonlight was reflected onto it from the lakewater. "You're Murtagh, ain't you?"

Murtagh inclined his head. He still had a hand on Zar'roc, though he did not draw his sword.

"You found me so quickly. Was this some trap of Tabor's all along?" Her voice was laced with defiance. There was also the hint of an accent, a rough one, though Murtagh couldn't tell to which city it belonged.

"No - Tabor is dead. Executed for treason."

"So the King found out about his secret." The hatchling crept closer against her neck and trilled. She told it to hush.

"Tell me your name," Murtagh said, firmer than before.

"I won't," she replied, having learnt many years ago that no good ever came from giving your name to people you do not trust.

"You'll regret it," Murtagh warned her simply. The girl remained silent, a challenging glint in her eyes. Murtagh sighed. Gathering himself, he pushed against her mind. He found her defenses weak, unpractised, and broke through easily before she understood what was happening. She doubled over and cried out in pain, eyes scrunched shut, hands around her head. The dragon swayed on her shoulder, squeaking surprise.

He found her name, triumphant. Murtagh intruded deeper, examining her motives and experiences since she began her journey. He did not linger on her older memories, though what he did see made him curious. He saw through her eyes as a young child, scampering barefoot through crowds in Dras Leona accompanied by equally dirty, pitifully thin children, as they cut the purses and picked the pockets of the adults they passed. Murtagh withdrew, and Lyra straightened up with a shudder, her features contorted from wariness to fear.

"Lyra," Murtagh said, his lip lifting in a smirk as he took a step forward, limiting the small space between them. "You need to come with me."

She shook her head, soft lips parting and round eyes narrowing. "I won't serve your King."

Murtagh opened his mouth to reply, then paled. He felt an overwhelming presence against his mind. It seeped through his defenses, weaving into every deep, dark corner of his thoughts, demanding total control. Galbatorix wanted a report. Murtagh shrank back as the king searched for the information he wanted.

_Oh, now this is interesting... Far better than I had expected, _chided the King in mild surprise_, _using Murtagh's eyes to view the scene. Murtagh fell rigid and silent. He sensed the King's mild, almost off-hand surprise at discovering the egg had hatched. _Ahh, think of the possibilities, Murtagh. A second rider_ _brought to my disposal! Now, I want her in Uru'baen by week's end. Alive, preferably._

_ I was planning on it, my Liege. _Murtagh was aware of Thorn padding towards him, to keep watch on Lyra. The girl was confused at his change of expression_, _but looked ready to capitalise on the apparent distraction and bolt from the cove.

_Of course you were, _Galbatorix mused, observing Lyra stumble backwards as Thorn got too close. The dragon stretched out his long neck to within a foot of her, examining her and the hatchling with a cruel ruby eye. _I'm sure she'll adore Shruikan. _

_I will do as you say - she'll get there._

_The Ra'zac approach. Follow them to Helgrind, they will drug her for the journey. It will not do for her to be causing unnessessary trouble while captive.  
><em>

_Understood.  
><em>

_Good. And Murtagh? If she does not reach me, be sure you will not be able to blink without writhing in agony. This is one oppurtunity I cannot let pass.  
><em>

Murtagh ran a hand through his hair as the king left, and looked up_. _Lyra gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and alarm, clutching her hatchling to her chest. She still held her knives.

_"_I won't hurt you," he told her.

_"_You're lying," she said, perfectly calm.

Murtagh's temper wound a little tighter. "Alright then; I don't _want_ to hurt you. Drop those daggers and I won't have to."

Lyra shifted her dragon to her shoulders once again. She had a dark, difficult look on her face. "Didn't you hear me? I won't serve your king, I'd rather die!"

"So be it," Murtagh complied menacingly. "Though, he would like a word with you beforehand."

She scowled and stepped away. Murtagh began to close the gap seperating them, and Thorn growled deeply in his chest. Deciding the time for talk had passed, he muttered a spell. The knives Lyra held were yanked from her grasp, and plunged into the sand beside Thorn. She cursed, falling backwards into a group of rocks that barred her way.

As he prepared a spell that would bind Lyra, Murtagh smirked; he wouldn't even have to draw Zar'roc.

A grim look darkened Lyra's expression as Murtagh stepped within a few feet of her. She twisted fluidly; after dipping her right hand into a bag at her belt, she pulled it upwards and flicked her arm through the air. A pair of throwing knives flew at Murtagh. He lunged reflexively, with barely enough time to recognise what they were before his wards caught the little blades inches from his chest.

_She is beginning to vex me,_ he told Thorn, as Lyra turned and swiftly and began to scale the rocks behind her. Murtagh started forwards, realising the girl knew exactly what she was doing; she climbed like an expert, pulling herself up without hesitation and finding the most obscure of handholds.

The rocks were piled perhaps fifteen feet high. Murtagh followed Lyra's path upwards, his strength assisting him as Lyra's experience assisted her._  
><em>  
>He looked up to see the hem of her cloak whip out of sight over the grey outcrop, but he didn't hurry himself - if it came to a run, he'd catch her before she could blink. Thorn glided over him. <em>She's in the trees<em>, he said, as his rider clambered over the edge.

Murtagh sprinted towards the old, musty beeches. Lyra was not in sight. Reaching out, he sensed her presence. She wasn't far ahead, and he glimpsed the hatchling's pure scales between the trunks.

Lyra leapt between the trees in the darkness, with the reassuring weight of her dragon on her left shoulder. The trees were widely spaced at first, but then grew closer together, slowing her down. Jumping a tree root, she looked up through the tall branches to see Thorn gliding low over the leaves.

Then somebody growled inside her head, _You cannot run forever. _The voice was fanged, rumbling; Thorn's voice.

Lyra ran faster, vaulting a moss-covered rock. Hearing pounding footsteps behind her, she had to face truth. She could not outrun Murtagh - His pace was inhumanly rapid. Without breaking stride, she lunged up the nearest tree and swiftly clambered to the mid branches, out of Murtagh's line of sight. Not noticing the hatchling leave her shoulder, she leapt from tree to tree as a leopard would; padding along the thicker branches and avoiding large patches of foliage that would rustle loudly. The years spent clambering over Dras Leona's roofs and railings had taught her many useful talents.

But it didn't take as long for Murtagh to adjust to her new tactic as she had hoped it would. He ran below her shouting a strange word, causing the branches around her to splinter with almightly cracks. "_Magic!_" She cursed, narrowly avoiding a broken bough. All her life she'd seen or heard naught but a whisper of it, and now here it was, tumbling menacingly all around her.

Lyra was suddenly, horribly aware of the absence of her dragon. She gripped the nearest trunk and whirled, chest heaving, scanning the black branches for a flash of silver scales.

Murtagh wove beneath her and cried, "Jierda!"

The limb beneath her feet shattered. She jolted, clasping the branch above her and dragging herself onto it. Lyra leapt to the next tree just before Murtagh broke her second branch.

Distressed over the missing hatchling, Lyra ran carelessly. She heard Murtagh cursing below her, yelling out loud at Thorn. But where _was_ his red dragon?

A rocky stream wound between the tree trunks. Holding on to a bough above her as she ran, Lyra prepared for a swinging jump across it.

Murtagh shouted "No, Thorn!", before a huge amount of fright and pain bounded into her from the link she shared with her dragon - the hatchling was hurt.

Lyra twisted in shock, and lost her grip on the branch. She plummeted through snagging branches and tumbled into shallow water. Landing on a jutting rock in the middle of the stream, she yelled out as she heard a sickening crack and pain lanced up from her elbow. Lyra turned on her side, grimacing and cradling her arm from the water's flow. Her vision blurred, and the forest became a mist of greys and blacks. She had no idea which pain was hers, and which was the hatchling's._  
><em>

Murtagh's voice rang out, alarmingly close by. "Genius, Thorn! Why don't you kill them both while you're at it?"

He came into view seconds later. Lyra fought weakly as Murtagh wound one hand in her hair, the other in her shirt, and dragged her roughly from the stream. As Murtagh shoved her down on the mossy ground, Thorn swept in to land next to the stream, crushing trees and flattening foliage. When Lyra saw her silver dragon clamped between his jaws, she cried out and Murtagh pinned her down with a firm hand against her shoulder.

But Lyra did not lie still; her dragon was bleeding. She yanked a knife from her boot, and tried to slice at the arm restraining her. Murtagh caught her wrist easily with his free hand, and didn't hesitate before twisting it back behind her head. He clenched his fist tightly, forcing her to drop the blade. Lyra groaned and turned her face away; far too much pain wracked her body.

Murtagh leaned over her, rolling a knee onto her chest and turning her jaw, forcing her to look at him. Lyra struggled miserably for a moment, then stilled. Their faces were less than half a foot apart.

"You," Murtagh whispered, draping each word with threat, "have been far too irksome."

Lyra gazed determinedly into his harsh blue eyes, her eyelids half closed in exhaustion. She shivered, cold water dripping from her hair and running down her shoulders.

Something loosened in Murtagh's features. He pulled her into a sitting position and put a palm on her brow. "Slytha," he muttered bitterly.

Lyra felt herself thrust into darkness, and knew no more.


	3. Chapter 3

Lyra sat curled against the bars of her cell door. She had woken in a dark, damp corner of this chamber maybe an hour ago, yet her drowsiness had not worn away. Her head buzzed, and whenever she had tried to stand on her shaking knees, dizzyness overcame her and she had no choice but to slump to the floor. Her cell was of dark rock. There was no such bed or cot, not even a pile of ragged blankets. Manacles hung from the ceiling, coated in blood and cobwebs. There was also a formiddable stench of rank, musty meat that she was unable to get out of her nose.

The girl twisted against the steel bars, trying to see through them to the dimly lit tunnel beyond. At first Lyra had feared that she was in Uru'baen already, but her panic had subsided when she noticed the passageway was of natural formation. As it was devoid of any of Galbatorix's flags or sigils, and no soldiers patroled, Lyra concluded that this place was not right for an Uru'baen dungeon.

Though that conclusion made her a little more uncertain, in a way. Were was she? Were was the hatchling? In fact, where was Murtagh? She shivered; the cold and the damp clung to her skin, and her thin grey shirt did little to warm her clammy bones. Her cloak had been removed, along with her belt, and she could no longer find any of the little blades or lockpicks she had taken to hiding on her person. Lyra had developed that particular habit years ago; In her opinion an unexpected weapon was the best kind, no matter how small.

She closed her eyes and tried to figure out how long she must have been in the cell. The back of her hair was still a little damp with water from the stream, so she doubted it could be more than a few hours. After reliving the memory of her fall, and then of Mutagh dragging her bodily out of the water, something confused her. She had been so sure that the terrible crack she had heard when her arm hit the rock meant something was broken, but she could move everything perfectly. There wasn't even a bruise.

A flicker of movement in the tunnel caught her attention. She kneeled up and peered past the bars, trying to see into a cell on the opposite wall. She could make out a thin, emaciated figure chained to a wall inside it. It was almost impossible to see. The torch brackets on the dreary black rock held only a few small flames which served to throw most of the corridor into shadow, giving everything a distorted edge.

Sighing, Lyra gave up trying to spot her fellow prisoner and slumped backwards onto her knees. The absence of her dragon made her feel lost and hopeless, like a part of her own chest was missing. Something else was stirring up inside her in its place: a determination that stated she was not just going to sit here, waiting for Murtagh to come and drag her off to Galbatorix.

She quickly ran her hands over her shirt, looking for lockpicks Murtagh might have missed. After searching through her pockets and bootcuffs with a great deal of frustration, Lyra was forced to once more conclude that they had all been confiscated. She clutched the bars in her fists and rested her head between them, growling in annoyance. She had been imprisoned a few times over the course of her criminal childhood, and had always been able to escape her captors by successfully smuggling a lockpick or some other implement. The fact that she had failed to do so now, when it had never been so important, infuriated her.

The tunnel floor was littered with stones, and she saw one catch and reflect the light from a torch bracket - like metal would. She looked closer, and recognised it as a broken spearhead. Relief jumping inside her, Lyra sucked in her breath and pushed against the cell door, stretching her arm through the bars as she thanked the gods for such luck. Her jubilation ceased, however, when her fingertips fell inches short. Frowning, she shoved her chest and shoulder harder into the door, trying to get a hold on the piece of sharpened metal.

Although it seemed an impossibility, her fingers brushed the spearhead. As she grasped it tighter, the razor edge scraped roughly against her hand, deeply cutting her palm and her fingers. Lyra gritted her teeth as she pulled the blade into the cell, before dropping it and examining her shaking hand. Her right palm was bleeding profusely. The silver scar the dragon had given her was rent down the middle by a bloody slash that was quickly leaking blood. Grimacing, Lyra ripped a strip of cotton from her shirt to use as a makeshift bandage.

Lyra struggled to pick the door's lock with her left hand, dropping the jagged metal a few times and riddling her fingers with more cuts. She listened carefully for the tumblers to click, but heard nothing. Full of pain and frustration, she impatiently jammed the spearhead into the lock, breaking off the narrow tip as it embedded itself in the mechanism. Lyra cursed with disgusted expression on her face, then launched it across the room. The spearhead sparked as it struck the rock and bounced back towards the girl, landing not a yard from her boot.

Preparing to kick it away from her, Lyra froze as she heard the echo of footsteps moving swiftly down the corridor. She snatched up the spearhead and stumbled away from the door.

She settled sat with her back to the wall, her weapon clasped behind her as she watched the entrance to her cell. Heart thumping in her chest, she watched as a slim figure obscured the dim light filtering into her cave. It was Murtagh. His gaze locked with hers the moment he came into view. His eyes were hard. Passing a hand over the lock, he muttered something, causing the door to click and swing inwards.

As Murtagh stepped into the room, Lyra gripped the spearhead, calculating whether it would be best thrown from this distance or whether she should strike when Murtagh got closer. She soon thought better of it, noting the crimson sword at his hip and remembering his use of magic. A warm trickle of blood slid down her injured hand, as if to settle the matter, and she dropped the blade.

Murtagh stood over her. He wore the same shirt and black leather vest as last night, and Lyra noticed the small bloodstains where her knives had pierced his shirt. He knelt down to face her at eye level.

"Where's my dragon?" Lyra glared at him.

Murtagh smirked. "He's with Thorn. Don't worry about him."

"He?" Her eyes softened in curiousity.

"That's what Thorn said."

"Let me see him."

"Not yet," Murtagh said.

"Why?" Lyra asked. "Where am I? I'm not in Uru'baen, right?"

"No, you're not in the capital." Murtagh raised his eyebrows. "You're in Helgrind."

Lyra paused and narrowed her eyes, looking into his face as if trying to determine if he was telling the truth. "Helgrind?"

"The one and only."

_Helgrind is a prison? Or something worse? _Lyra figured she'd know soon enough. She apprehensive of why Murtagh had approached her, and regarded him suspiciously. "What are you here for?"

He smiled again, dark eyes twinkling, and sat down a foot or so across from her. "To talk."

"Why?" She said again. "'bout what?"

"Full of questions... I need to know who you are, exactly. You see, the king expects a report on you, and I intend to have the information for him."

Lyra recoiled a little at the mention of Galbatorix. It was a reminder of where she was being taken and to whom she was being taken to. "I'm not going to talk with you."

"I can get what I want without you opening your lips. Remember our encounter last night?" Murtagh allowed just the right amount of threat to trickle into his voice. Lyra faltered as she recalled the way Murtagh had intruded into her mind, and he carried on. "Words aren't good enough, I need memories. You can see your dragon when I'm done."

She looked up at him darkly. "How long will you take?"

"That depends on how interesting you are."

It was an odd answer, and she struggled to find something else to say. While she was silent, Murtagh slid to her side, so they were almost touching, and put a palm on her brow. She hated to admit it but his warm, rough hand was comforting within the gloom and loneliness of the cell. "Now, stay quiet," he told her. "It'll only hurt more if you resist."

Lyra clenched her jaw as she felt Murtagh's mind brush against her own, and then force his way in.

Murtagh first noticed the similarities between their minds; most prominent was their cautiousness and instinct for survival. Hers, he understood, was born from a childhood of fending for herself that nobody should have to experience. Curious, he looked for her parents and found only faceless, nameless figures that dominated her dreams. He found her skills in pick pocketing and cutting purses, and he examined a memory that had floated to the surface.

_She stared with wide eyes at the rusty knife Draper handed to her. "You're six now_," _the older boy said. "You can use it. I'll show you how." Draper taught her how to cut purses, how to throw knives, how to sneak around without getting caught. He hit her when she made mistakes, but he would always give her one of his blankets when it got too cold at night. He told her about Mama and Papa, how they were locked up in prison for stealing badly and they'd never ever get out again. He told her about legends and dragons and magic when she couldn't sleep. Years later, she cried as Draper hung from the gallows, his bloated face turned toward the heavens as he struggled.  
><em>

Lyra moaned in protest and covered her face with her hands. Murtagh moved away from the image. He watched as she slunk through darkened rooms in search of trinkets, and watched how over the years she ceased being taught by the children around her and became a teacher herself.

_After Draper died, she befriended a savage little street gang_, _and taught them what she knew_. _The children loved her like they would a mother, and she used that to her advantage. Rival urchin gangs were always scrapping. She took part in petty yet sickening street brawls full of children and soaked with children's blood._ _In an alleyway off Dras Leona's Market Street, she faced down a boy wielding a plank studded with nails. His gang stood behind him, her children stood behind her. The younger ones watched with hungry looks on their faces as Lyra pulled her knife_ _and approached her rival in the centre of the alley._ _He called an insult, and his urchins sniggered. She jeered back, and it was her side's turn to sneer. His face turned sour as he swung for her. She dodged, and was swept up in the mass of charging children. They all yelled, swinging sticks and rocks and fists. Girls and boys as young as four pelted their enemies with stones as their older friends wildly, clumsily yet brutally beat down opponents. A younger girl ran at her, brandishing a sharpened stick like a spear. Lyra aimed a swift kick at her knee, then slashed her blade along her arm. The girl stumbled away with a cry and disappeared into the fight. Only a short time passed before their rivals ran away. The ones that could run, that was. The boy - the leader - slumped against the wall with a bleeding and broken leg. When she approached, he flinched as if she were about to strike him. "What's your name?" she asked. He spat out a mouthful of blood. "Anthony," he replied._

Lyra's childhood was hungry and bloody, and her teenage years were no better. Murtagh could not say he wasn't hollowed by the savagery he was seeing from children so young_, _but neither could he say he was surprised. She had never been lonely, as he had been; she was always surrounded by friends to love and opponents to hate. Her thoughts grew darker as he intruded deeper, and memories swam before him more vividly than before. He saw tiny children dying slowly within mounds of rags, from both disease and starvation_. _A soldier tried to assault her_, _and he crawled away with a blade in his stomach. Murtagh stumbled across a memory that had been forgotten and heavily repressed_. _He felt the misery rise with Lyra as he unearthed it, and she frantically tried to push him away from it. It was a physical as well as mental effort; she firmly planted hands on his chest and tried to shake his palm off her brow. Murtagh brushed her away, intrigued.

_It was a wealthy home. She stepped cautiously across the bedroom, plucking up jewelry and coins as she found them. As she approached the door, somebody entered. The sight of the earl silhouetted in the doorway caused so much shock and anger to boil within her. It was him. The one who had caught Draper, and had pushed and shoved for his execution. She could have ran, could have bolted for the window. But she didn't. She lunged instead. Her vision went black, and when it cleared he was lying on the floor, chest torn to ribbons. She had no clue how many times she had stabbed him, only aware that she was still doing it. It didn't seem relevant that his wails and splutters had ended minutes ago. A scream made her look up from the body. His two daughters stood in the doorway. She looked into their haunted faces with their father's blood splashed across her face and smi-  
><em>

"Stop it! Stop it!"

Murtagh recoiled as pain whipped across his arm. He came back to the present to see a deep cut along the forearm he had been holding to Lyra's head. He winced. She had clearly lashed out with all her strength. He stopped the flow of blood with a few words, and looked up.

Lyra had curled into the corner, head buried in her arms. An old spearhead was clenched in her bandaged and bleeding fist. "Don't," she murmured, shivering.

Murtagh leaned close, and prised the metal from her grip. Then he caught her hand, and twisted it palm up. As he unwound her ragged bandage, she lifted her head, and gazed in confusion at his already half healed arm. He put his palm over hers, and muttered a gentle phrase she didn't catch. Her skin slowly knitted back together and the pain seeped away, leaving a pale scar on top of the silver one.

"It's called the Gedway Ignasia," Murtagh told her quietly. "And you've now got a very distinctive one." She pulled her hand away, and examined it with wide eyes. "I mended your elbow earlier too. It was a bad break."

She nodded. "I thought... " Her voice was no more than a whisper, and she seemed unable to look him in the face. She shuddered, pulling herself together. "I'd forgotten. Forgot all about that night-"

He lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers. "Never forget it again," he said firmly. "Look back on that memory proudly. That man killed Draper. He killed your brother, and you rightly avenged him. I wouldn't have hesitated to kill the bastard either."

She didn't return his heavy gaze. "Please don't do it again. I feel sick." And she did; her eyesight was slightly unfocused, and a roaring headache was throbbing in her skull.

He shook his head. "I don't have to. Though I'll warn you now; Galbatorix wants to know who you are, and know you well enough so that he can control you unquestioned. He won't just search for defining memories like that - he'll hunt them. And the more pain he causes you? The more fun he'll have doing it."

Lyra swallowed past the lump in her throat. "He's done that to you."

He nodded, rising to his feet. "And much worse. Now come, you'll feel better with your dragon beside you." Lyra tried to stand. Murtagh steadied her with a hand against her spine, and led her out of the chamber.

The air seemed to lift as soon as they entered the hallway, and Lyra's head cleared a little. Facing the dark, ominous network of corridors ahead, Lyra remembered she was in Helgrind, and found herself shrinking closer to Murtagh as they walked into the near darkness.

xxx

**A/N**. Touch of stockholm syndrome ;)

Please review whether you like it or you don't, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this - CC always appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**. A week late, sorry! I was reading through the Inheritance cycle again, when I lent Eragon to my best mate and foolishly bet him a fiver that I could finish Brisingr (I was halfway through Eldest at the time) before he made it through Eragon. Well... That was something I could've gone without. Especially after pledging to a number of reviewers that this chap would be up in two days time. HA. I walked myself into that particular trap. So i've spent the past week cursing myself, scouring through the series at top speed, revising for half-term assessments _and_ adding little bits to this chap during my spare frees while at college. _Wonderful_ week, I can assure you. But hey, 'least I won! :D

SPOILERS (little, though) and and excerpt from brisingr.

xxx

The tunnels were haphazard, unorganized and weaving. They reminded Lyra of anthills or mouseholes, and walking through them made her feel tiny. Questions burned on her tongue, but the silence between her and Murtagh was heavy and she decided not to break it. As Murtagh kept a tense, cautious hand on her forearm, she wondered about the figures she had seen through the bars of their cells, and what exactly Helgrind was. She had spent her entire life in the black mountain's shadow, and it was disconcerting beyond belief to be walking within the very rock that was the basis of so many superstitions and tales.

Murtagh had conjured a hovering ball of red light, and it bobbed a few feet infront of them, swaying and fading like a spectre. Lyra regarded the magic with as much apprehension as she did the caves she was walking in.

Relief swirled within Lyra as she stepped onwards. She could feel the bond she shared with her dragon strengthening as they came closer together. She walked faster, keen to get to him. After maybe ten minutes of darkness, Murtagh led her around a corner and into huge chamber. Lyra had time to notice that the floor was gouged with claw marks and shattered rock before dawn's first light blinded her. It flooded into the chamber from a fifty meter wide entrance that opened to the sky. When her eyes had stopped streaming, she noticed a number of passageways punctured the walls of the sunlit chamber with their inky black interiors. They were heading towards the largest one, Murtagh shielding his eyes with a hand.

As they approached, a series of heavy, scraping thumps echoed from the tunnel. It was, quite clearly, the sound of a large beast shifting its bulk from one limb to the next. She assumed it to be Thorn, until a keening wail pierced the still air and Murtagh threw out an arm to halt her. Shadows shifted in the lancet passageway, and she gazed, wide-eyed, at the monster that emerged. Larger than Thorn, its grey skin stretched taut with muscle, it turned its bulging black eyes upon them and screeched again. Murtagh grimaced, and Lyra slapped her hands over her ears, screwing her eyes shut. It was a drawn, terrible sound that seemed to tear at your very soul.

The thing studied Murtagh, and seemed to recognise him. Its watery eyes were intelligent and scrutinizing, deep with comprehension. It moved out of the passageway and to the side, as if to let them pass. Murtagh gestured for Lyra to continue down the tunnel, but she didn't notice, absorbed as she was in watching the monster's shuffling gait as it headed to the other side of the chamber. Then he shoved Lyra to get her moving and she carried on walking, though unable to keep her silence. "What_ is_ that?"

"It's called a lethrblaka - They're the Ra'zac's mounts. Now hush and keep moving."

She paused, her mouth open slightly. The Ra'zac were eternally flitting in and out of horror tales the citizens of Dras Leona passed on to each other. Many had simply become children's fears and superstition. Draper had told her many of those stories, and she, in turn, had echoed them to her street clan. "The Ra'zac... They're real, then?"

He raised an eyebrow that she could barely see, as they had been once more swallowed by darkness. He conjured another ball of light, illuminating the tunnels. The passages were carvernous this time, covered in slime and dried blood. Bones were littered every few feet along the floor, and she took care not to step on them. Murtagh pointed down a smaller passageway. "Right there."

Lyra only caught a brief glimpse of the room beyond, but what she did see was enough to unsettle her. Two humped figures garbed in black robes stood over a hissing cauldron. One of the pair looked up as they passed, and Lyra thought she saw the flash of a beak within its hood. They passed the entrance to the passageway, and the sight was gone. A slick, acidic aroma filled the air in this tunnel, and Lyra guessed that the Ra'zac's cauldron was the source of the cold, harsh smell. When the girl pulled up her collar to cover her nose, Murtagh amusedly decided not to mention that it was the boiling fumes of the sedative for her journey to U'ru' baen.

Soon, the smell dissipated and the number of bones and bloodstains along the tunnel became fewer. Sensing the hatchling's heartbeat synchronizing with her own, Lyra almost felt whole again.

They entered a bright chamber. Thorn's crimson bulk claimed over half of the room, and he struggled to raise his head as they entered due to the low ceiling. A loud squeak sounded from behind Thorn, one Lyra recognised immeadiately. The hatchling clambered up over Thorn's back, squeaking all the while, and glided to Lyra. She chuckled as she caught him against her chest, and transferred him to her shoulder. She tickled him under the chin, saying; _I missed you. _He yapped playfully at her touch. Through his mind, she felt a vague understanding under the bounding amount amount of relief and glee he felt at being reunited with her. She smiled - he was like a puppy.

Murtagh stood infront of her, arms crossed, drawing her attention away from the hatchling. "Have you named him yet?" He asked.

Lyra shook her head thoughtfully. She had barely thought about it, being too busy keeping him safe and out of sight. Besides, she hadn't even known whether he was male or female until today. And what Murtagh had told her felt right; the dragon's mind may be young and childish for the moment, but it fit without doubt that the hatchling was a he.

"He needs one quickly. Think about it while we're still here." Murtagh walked over to tend to Thorn, proceeding to oil patches of rough scales and strapping on a black leather saddle.

Lyra held her dragon out infront of her, suspending him with hands under his forelegs. She stood still, considering him for a long time. They met each other's eyes, and he let out a soft, curious squeal.

"Raspen," Lyra said immeadiately, with conviction. Raspen hooted his approval, and she pulled him close.

Murtagh raised his eyebrows, looking up from the patch of scale-rot he was treating on Thorn's stomach. "Raspen?"

"Yes. Why?"

"It's unusual. Why have you chosen it?"

"It's from the language the Black Priests speak. They use it as another word for _pray, _but... Draper told me it meant to screech, or howl." She spoke her brother's name with difficulty. She hadn't voiced it in so long, and it seemed reluctant to slip round her tongue. "He's been rather verbal so far, and as he's actually in Helgrind at the moment, what the Priests actually pray to, so... I think it works, anyway, and so does he."

Murtagh rose, an ironic sort of smile on his face. He gently stroked Raspen's sharp snout, the hatchling sniffing at his fingers cautiously. "It works." He met her eyes, then returned to Thorn.

Lyra seated herself on a wooden, bench-like cot against the wall, Raspen perched in her lap. She tried not to think about how soon they might leave. Murtagh adjusted Thorn's saddle straps, as if for a journey, and this did nothing to settle her. She would never reach Uru'baen if she could help it.

The was a food tray on the cot, and suddenly aware of her rumbling stomach, she helped herself to bread. Glancing around, she noticed her belt, blades and lockpicks piled on top of her folded cloak next on Thorn's saddlebags. _Should I dare reach for them? _Lyra decided against it. What good would it do? She'd never escape Helgrind, she didn't even know how she got in here. Lyra presumed that was why Murtagh hadn't bound her or was keeping closer watch on her.

Just as she reached this conclusion, Murtagh turned to retrieve the saddle bags.

_Wait Murtagh, _Thorn said with impatience, stretching his bulk out as far as he could in the confined space. Lyra watched the thick tendons and sinews flex beneath his crimson hide. _I told you I want to hunt first._

_We haven't got the time. The Ra'zac told me they're almost done with their foul brew, _Murtagh told him privately.

Thorn growled. _I've just been lying around bored for ages, waiting for you so you can keep an eye on that hatchling while I go hunt. I'm telling you, Murtagh, I am not setting off for Uru'baen until my belly is full of buck._

_Well then, hurry. _Murtagh cursed the futilety of arguing with a dragon as he moved out of Thorn's way, dumping the packs back down on the floor_. _Thorn squeezed his head and shoulders through the opening of the chamber, and then trotted freely down the cavernous hallway beyond. _We're leaving as soon as you get back._

Both Lyra and Raspen were overcome with curiousity. "How old is he?"

Murtagh narrowed his eyes trying to remember. "Three or four months," He slurred, as if he found the information distasteful.

Lyra blinked. "But, he can't be more than a baby. Dragons really grow that fast?_"_

"No," Murtagh replied, pained. "Thorn's supposed to be half his size, if that. The King - he's made the the both of us more powerful than we should be so we can serve him better. He will do the very same to you and your dragon. Keep him close while you can - Raspen will be warped just like Thorn."

Sensing unease, the little dragon chirped from his place on Lyra's knee. His rider stroked his neck to reassure him. The thought of Galbatorix twisting the pair of them to his will haunted her, so she tried to push it out of her mind_, _with miserable success. Lyra didn't truly understand, however. "How? How did he do that to you and Thorn?"

Murtagh regarded her with his dark eyes. "Magic."

"The King is a magician?"

"The king is a _rider_."

Lyra gaped. "He can't be - people would know if he was."

"Would they really? Sometimes people can be very blind indeed. Everybody knows the riders were immortal, and how else could he have lived so long? She faltered, and Murtagh continued. "He rules the Empire along with his black dragon, Shruikan. You've never heard of the twisted beast because he hasn't risen from the underground caverns below the palace in over six decades. He'll sleep among the underground lakes for dozens of years at a time."

Part of Lyra refused to believe Murtagh's words, but the other half saw the logic in them. She quieted, contemplating what Murtagh had told her. "Should you have told me this?"

"You need to know," Murtagh told her. "You ask too many questions, in any case."

"All this is fairly new and unexpected, to be honest."

Murtagh gave a wry smile. "I bet you wish you were back in Dras Leona now."

Shaking her head, Lyra said, "Not one bit. I hadn't been out of the city for years, and I always liked traveling. I don't think I would've spent much more time there even if I didn't steal Raspen's egg."

"You don't miss what you had?"

"Of course I do. That doesn't mean I want to go back to it, though."

"No, I don't suppose it does," Murtagh mused. "And when have you ever travelled? As far as I thought, urchins don't get to do much of that."

"Draper," she said, as if it was all the explanation he needed. "We lived in Tierm for a year or so, and he's taken me to Belatona before."

"Thieving trips, I assume?"

Lyra nodded, suddenly uncomfortable with divulging imformation to him. Didn't he get enough while he was inside her head?

"It seems I missed a lot," Murtagh said, as if reading her thoughts. Considering the fact that this was a possibility, Lyra desperately cast around for a change of subject.

"When you were chasing me - in the forest - Thorn spoke to me. I didn't know the dragons could do that."

"Didn't know what, that they could speak?"

Lyra shrugged. "I thought of them as intelligent, but I didn't know they were as smart as us."

"Oh, they are. The older ones were wiser than us by far. They've got an odd sort of reasoning, the dragons. You'll get to know it when he grows up."

Lapsing into silence, Lyra leaned back against the jagged wall, absently cradling Raspen as he curled against her stomach.

Seating himself on the saddlebags, Thorn's consciousness just a whisper on the horizon, Murtagh reached out with his mind and murmured the incantation Galbatorix had taught him that would allow him to contact the Ra'zac. He prodded the pair of black, alien minds residing somewhere in the labyrinth of passageways within Helgrind, and inquired into their progress. He was eager to be gone from here. Once he learned that the drug had brewed successfully and they were on their way, he pulled away from the hissing, slithering minds as soon as he could.

Repressing a shudder, Murtagh rose to his feet, intending to contact Thorn and harry him until he returned, sated or not. He looked for Thorn, but could not find him - he must've ventured beyond their range. He began to curse, and then was cut off by an almighty roar that echoed into the chamber, making the passageways tremble. Murtagh froze, and saw Lyra do the same. That sound would never come from a Lethrblaka and even if Thorn was not miles away from Helgrind, Murtagh had the impression his dragon could not roar like that if he tried. As it was neigh on impossible to assume Shruikan had arrived to escort them to Uru'baen, Murtagh knew there was only one other explanation. _Saphira_.

Murtagh finished his cursing, throwing in many more violent and bloody oaths than he had initially intended to include. Thorn was absent, and the King had not bound him to any eldunari for this mission. If he fought Eragon he fought alone, and however proud he may be, he would not bet on his own prospects for that particular battle.

"That was a dragon," Lyra whispered, her words floating over the rising din of thrashing bodies and clanging metal from above them. "Not Thorn though..." She fell silent as she understood what that meant. _It's the Varden's Rider._

"We're leaving," Murtagh told Lyra and started towards her. She had already bolted for the passage, yet he managed to catch her by the arm as she tried to dart past. "You're staying with me," he snapped, and kept hold of her as he stalked down a tunnel away from the fighting. He reached out with his mind, spread the edges as far as he could reach, or had ever reached before, and_ bellowed_ for Thorn. The very act seemed to cost him precious energy. As he shoved Lyra deeper into the curling passages, he felt one of the Ra'zac's festering minds press against his. He recoiled at first, then admitted it. The Ra'zac were running toward the battle.

_How do they know we're here? _he asked it immeadiately, flinching as the echo of one of the Lethrblaka's piercing screams rent his ears.

_They do not... _It said, or _she_ said, he realised numbly. _They have taken the bait, and arrived to sslay us and ressscue the cousin's mate. I warn you - Ssstay away_ _from the cellss_.

Before Murtagh could ask more, she withdrew. Trying to capitalise on his momentary distraction, Lyra twisted in his grip, tugging and struggling valiantly. Their fragile, cautious friendship of a few moments ago was broken, and once again they were nothing but enemies to each other.

Murtagh uttered a spell, and Lyra was suddenly muffled in heavy drowsiness. She could move and talk, but she was so _tired_! Without the strength or determination to resist, she let Murtagh drag her over to a slimy puddle of dripping water in the middle of the tunnel. He let go of her to bend over the water, but she couldn't run - her limbs were too heavy.

"Draumr kopa," Murtagh muttered, seeking to satisfy his curiosity. The image went black, and reformed to show the Lethrblaka's landing chamber and the battle writhing within it.

As Murtagh examined the battle, assessing threats and possibilities, Lyra felt his attentiveness towards the spell he had cast over her begin to fail. Energy flooded back to her, and with all the skill she could muster, Lyra crept away with Raspen silent on her shoulder.

As Murtagh watched the white, indisctinct figure of Eragon's cousin disappear into the black tunnels after Eragon, he became aware of his missing prisoners. Without pausing to kick, spit or even swear, he launched himself after them.

xxx

Katrina hesitated, then glanced at Roran, who nodded and murmured, "It's all right. Saphira brought us here." Together, the couple skirted the corpse of the Lethrblaka as they went over to Saphira, who crouched flat upon her belly so that they could mount her.

Crossing the cave after them, Eragon examined Saphira, assessing the severity of her various scrapes, gashes, tears and stab wounds. To do so, he relied upon what she herself felt, as well as what he could see.

_For goodness sake_, said Saphira,_ save your attentions until_...

She grew silent and ever more tense._ Saphira?_ Eragon asked, feeling the shock emanating from their bond and quickly growing concerned. Her hackles were raised, her nostrils flared, and he had never seen her eyes so wide. _Are you hurt? What is it?_

_That scent! Oh, why didn't I pick it up before? It has to be a trick_!

_What scent? Tell me, Saphira_.

_Of a dragonling!_

Incredulous, Eragon glanced up at Roran and Katrina, and glimpsed them squinting into the large passageway behind him.

"There's somebody in the tunnel," Roran informed him, pulling his hammer and preparing to swing down from Saphira.

Hearing light footsteps from behind him, Eragon whirled around, hefting his staff.

Shadows shifted, and a girl stepped into the light. Chestnut hair tied into a loose knot at the base of her neck, she clasped a silver dragon hatchling to the chest of her bloodied shirt. Both of them were breathing hard. Eyes alighting on Saphira, the hatchling crooned a greeting.

Eragon's first impression of the girl was that of a prisoner; she was small and slim, her hands and face were flecked with blood and dirt, and her clothes were thin. The dragon could not have been more than a week old. He felt Saphira's excitement mingled with his own as they both took a step towards her.

The girl was alarmed and frantic. She glanced back into the passageway behind her, before stifling a gasp and dashing forward. She was too slow and Murtagh darted out of the shadows, pulling her towards him and flicking Zar'roc up to her throat to hold her in place.

Eragon stiffened. Saphira roared.

Murtagh whispered into Lyra's ear; "Nice try."

xxx

**A/N** Ah, this was a struggle. I may have an edit up in the next few days containing more detail of Lyra's escape, but I'm not sure whether it's needed. Your thoughts would help, please let me know anything you have to say on plot or chars, particularly Lyra - the last thing I want is an OC Sue. If you reckon she's sue-ish, tell me!

Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who has reviewed, alerted and favourited :) ~


	5. Chapter 5

"Nice try."

Lyra struggled. Zar'roc's blade was harsh and cold against her skin. She kicked at Murtagh's ankles and tried to wriggle out from under his sword, keeping her arms tight around Raspen. The hatchling bit at Murtagh's forearms.

The blue rider's protection was only metres away and Lyra was desperate.

Murtagh pulled back her hair, exposing her neck, and twisted Zar'roc to still her. The blade nicked her throat and blood trickled. Lyra quieted quickly in his tightened hold, though Raspen would not still.

A great deal of noise erupted. The blue dragon let out a deafening roar, and she reared with her wings spread wide and talons flashing, spurting flames in Murtagh's direction.

The fire was meant as a warning and had fallen far short, yet Murtagh jumped backwards instinctively. Lyra had jolted in his grip, and Raspen dropped from her arms. She cried in dismay as he darted out of sight.

The flash of movement caught her attention as the two men advanced. The one she identified as the rider bore a staff, the older wielded a hammer. The latter was behind, his eyes flicking back to the thin, red haired woman hovering at the edge of a passageway.

Murtagh was laughing. The sound was deep and hollow, and uncomfortably loud so close to her ears. "Eragon, my dear brother! We meet again so soon! Though I must say, your rescue attempt is rather inconvenient for us." He hefted a slumping Lyra, who choked and spat blood.

Eragon and Roran's eyes were hard and grim. Lyra met them with her own, alarmed and wide. At the rear Saphira had begun to pace. She sniffed the air repetitively and her claws nervously scratched at the rock._ Thorn's scent is not strong in the air_, she told both Eragon and Roran. _I think Murtagh may stand alone._

That gave Eragon hope. If the source of Murtagh's strange, formidable power was related to Thorn, they may now face each other as equals. "Murtagh," he called, rolling his staff between his palms. "Let go of her. We have matters to settle, you and I."

Murtagh smirked. "You think they're more important than our new fellow rider? I don't think so, and I'd rather not risk losing her in a brawl with you and your cousin."

Eragon's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you intend to do?"

Before Murtagh could reply, Saphira let out a keen and pounced carefully to the side, trapping a frantic dragonling. Murtagh groaned quietly and shifted in dismay as Raspen's head poked out between her talons, whilst Lyra sighed in relief. At least she knew where he was. Saphira bent her head to examine him, and the two dragons curiously touched their snouts together. Both Eragon and Lyra heard, or rather _felt_, the dragon's exchange. Saphira was reassuring the hatchling, and taking from him any information about him or his rider. Raspen scrambled clumsily up the older dragon's foreleg and perched himself on her shoulder, hooting happily.

_He needs safekeeping_, Saphira informed Eragon and Roran. _Thorn is not here, of that I am certain. Beat Murtagh down and be done with it._

Both men took her word for it and advanced again, Eragon hefting his staff like a spear. Murtagh pressed his blade tighter into the cut on Lyra's throat. She let out a choked cry and tried furiously to push his arm away. "That's close enough," he warned Eragon, and the pair reluctantly stopped in their tracks.

Roran was visibly losing patience. "We'll ask you again - If you will not face us, then what do you intend to do? Propose a bargain?"

Murtagh shook his head, a wide smirk upon his lips. Holding one finger up to the air, he said; "Listen."

All was silent, and Eragon and Roran exchanged wary glances. Then the air in the chamber pulsed with the wingbeats of a mighty beast. Thorn swept into the chamber, a fierce roar leaping from his bloody fangs. Wingspan fully stretched as he prepared to land, the sun glared from behind the crimson membrane and soaked the chamber in dark red light.

Immeadiately, Murtagh relinquished Lyra. She feel to her knees, coughing and clutching her throat. He stepped around her to meet Eragon and his partner in a clash of arms.

Lyra wasted no time stumbling upright and she sprinted across the chamber towards Raspen, nearly crashing headlong into Eragon in her haste. He swerved out of her way and let her go, focused as he was on the iminent duel with his brother.

Roran ran in to parry Murtagh's first attack, then swung his hammer back round towards his opponent's knee. Murtagh worked to hold his own against the other pair, Zar'roc flashing up to meet with staff or hammer and blocked every blow Eragon or Roran tried to land. He weaved between their weapons, dodging attacks, yet unable to successfully strike himself. Eragon was infuriated, sure that he would have the upper hand if he simply bore a sword rather than a staff.

A dark, hunched shape rushed from the nearby passageway. Thrusting a thin silver sword, the last Ra'zac joined the fight. Moments later the fray broke in two. Roran and the Ra'zac were swept in fierce blows, while Eragon and Murtagh dueled together with inhuman speed and accuracy.

On the other side of the chamber the two dragons circled, prowling and snarling like wildcats. They were cautious, neither of them daring to strike because of the shivering hatchling still clutching onto Saphira's shoulder.

"Raspen!" Lyra called as she got close enough. Her voice was coarse and weak, and she was numbly aware of the damp patch of blood coating her collar. She resisted the urge to rub at her neck. Raspen immeadiately took off from Saphira and landed in his rider's outstretched arms. Lyra backed away as Saphira shifted her weight so that she stood directly between them and Thorn.

_Hide!_, Saphira instructed both Lyra and Raspen, as Thorn loosed a battle-worthy bellow and charged at the blue dragon. Thorn's furious red eyes were set on Raspen.

Keeping a firm grip on the terrified hatchling, Lyra didn't stop to watch Saphira's counter attack. She ran back the way she had came, past Murtagh and Eragon's duel and then into the pitch darkness of the passageway. Lyra did not, however, have any intention of doing what she had been told. She needed a blade, that was all, and then she could more than fend for herself. She needed to prove that.

After she nearly went sprawling over some bones left in the blackness, she dropped Raspen so she could navigate better. _Stay close!_ She told him, putting all her conviction behind the phrase. She thought she heard him whine as he shrunk against her ankles, nearly tripping her a second time. They darted into the dimly lit chamber where they had been reunited earlier.

Panting, Lyra recovered her belongings. She strapped on her belt, fastened her sheathed daggers to it, and pulled on her gloves. Eyes full of regret, she turned to Raspen. _You have to stay here_, she said, bending down to stroke him gently on the nose. _You may be able to fight a fox or a dog, but that's not good enough for me to take you back into that chamber. You could so easily be broke under Thorn's paw, or speared on the end of that monster's sword. Stay here, Raspen! Stay quiet. _

Raspen did not understand most of her words, that much was obvious in the blank uncomprehension of his eyes. He found her basic meaning, however, perfectly clear. He uttered an indignant screech and wound himself around her boot, his needle claws digging into her calf as he refused to be seperated.

After several moments spent convincing him to let go, and after the dozens of promises made claiming Lyra would return for him as fast as she could, Raspen curled up sullenly in a corner, his grey, reproachful eyes burning after his rider as she left.

Leaving him made her feel hollow, and Lyra raced back up the passage as fast as she could. The sounds of Thorn and Saphira's thrashing filled the tunnel as she neared the exit. She could soon see the fighting. The man she didn't know the name of, the rider's companion, was faring badly in his fight with the Ra'zac. He had been previously injured, and the Ra'zac was beginning to outmaneuver him. Roran staggered slightly on his injured knee, and the Ra'zac lunged at his broken defences, Swinging its sword back to deliver a crippling blow. Without pause, Lyra pulled two throwing knives from her belt and flicked them through the air as she emerged from the passage. They whistled through the air and both embedded themselves in the Ra'zac's cloaked back.

The creature screeched in shock and pain as it stumbled forwards, losing its grip on its sword. Capitalising, Roran swung down his hammer as though he were weilding an executioner's axe and shattered the monster's black skull. It slumped, twitching, to the floor.

Roran acknowledged Lyra with a surprised, if grim nod, then turned to deliver a second blow to the Ra'zac.

Lyra ran to join the fight between Murtagh and Eragon. The were locked in furious concentration, exchanging thrusts and swipes with unnerving power. Doubting either of them had noticed her, Lyra unsheathed her daggers and delivered a running, sweeping kick to the back of Murtagh's knee before he realised she was behind him. As he struggled to recover his footing she dragged a dagger across his shoulder blade, then skittered away from a serious wounding as Murtagh growled and swept Zar'roc towards her.

Murtagh was unable to advance on her as Eragon tried to bring his staff down upon his shoulder, and he only just managed to catch the weapon with Zar'roc. The pair were once again tied together in a series of strikes. Lyra tried to weave her way into the match, hoping to distract Murtagh enough so Eragon could gain the upper hand, but it was not as easy as her first attempt. Murtagh was careful not to keep his back to her, and struck out if she got too close. Because of her size and upbringing Lyra was almost excessively nimble by human standards, yet she received a harsh slice to the ribs for thinking she could outmaneuver Murtagh. Roran dived into the fray with a war cry, swinging his hammer and preventing Murtagh from incapaciting Lyra further.

She stumbled away, cursing as she clutched her seething side. Eragon and Roran swung at Murtagh from both sides, and he struggled to block both of their attacks at once.

The chamber shook with the might of the dragon's brawl. Saphira and Thorn were a writhing, airborn mass of sparkling hide. It was impossible to see who struck whom, until Saphira broke away with a roar and a spurt of flame. She looped around the red dragon, then kicked at his chest with both her hind legs. He crashed into the ceiling of the chamber and Saphira rushed to pin him there, stabbing with her claws and bathing his head in unrelenting blue fire. Thorn's yowls of pain were unbearable; they hit Lyra like a javelin as she tried to cover her ears. She saw the red headed woman in the corner do the same.

Saphira finally ceased her torrent of fire and thrust Thorn to the floor, her claws slicing through the ruby membrane of his wings as she dropped him. As the dragon hit the rock, a sickening series of cracks split the air and the whole chamber seemed to tilt. Lyra had to struggle to remain upright.

Murtagh stumbled as Thorn fell, crying out from the pain that bounded across their link. Roran swung, and Murtagh was too distracted to blow knocked Zar'roc out of his hands, leaving him defenseless, unable to parry Eragon's unhesitating attacks.

Lyra was horrified at the sight of Thorn's ripped wings sticking out from beneath his torso; crumpled, bloodsoaked, and so clearly shattered. Thorn still stuggled, keening. Saphira landed on the belly of her defeated foe, and aimed a vicious swipe to the head. Thorn fell still, and she raised her head in a bloody roar.

Eragon landed the finishing blow on Murtagh the same way. He brought down his staff in an arc, striking Murtagh across the side of the head.

Then only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the chamber. They all stood still; exhausted and shaken. Until a familiar squeak pierced the silence. Raspen loped out of the shadows to Lyra, giving the strange humans in front of him a wide berth. Lyra slid down the wall and smiled as he leapt into her lap. Saphira approached, as did Eragon and Roran. Katrina came out of the shadows and threw herself into Roran's arms.

The blue dragon lowered her head to Lyra, inspecting her much the same way Thorn had done on the shore of the lake. There was caution in her gaze, as well as a suspicion that was mirrored in Eragon's. Lyra decided it would be wise to sheath her daggers.

"Who are you?" Eragon asked. He kneeled beside her and twisted her hand to behold the silvery scar on her palm.

Lyra decided on straightforward answers; she wanted to make allies out of these people. "My name's Lyra," she said, with no surname to give. "This is Raspen. I was trying to reach Surda before Murtagh caught us. Believe me, I serve no king. Nor do I wish to."

Eragon nodded, accepting her meagre identity and purpose as detailed enough for the time being. "Eragon Shadeslayer," he said, and saw her eyes widen. "Saphira Brightscales."

Lyra jerkily inclined her head to Saphira, who huffed and released a plume of smoke. _She is small_, Saphira observed to Eragon. _Even smaller than you. I do not understand why the silver one hatched for her._

_We will likely find out soon, _he replied.

She snorted and turned away. _We cannot linger here. Quickly deign whether she is trustworthy and we can be off. The child is confused and I can glean little information from him._

As they were speaking, Roran disengaged himself from Katrina and approached. "Roran Stronghammer," he said, patting the head of his weapon as he announced himself. "I feel I must thank you for your help."

Lyra raised her eyebrows in both recognition and admiration. "I've heard tell of you."

Katrina stepped forward and told Lyra her name. "And I thank you as well. You saved him serious injury."

"Let's go," Roran said, turning to Eragon. "This acursed pair could recover their wits any minute. Unless, of course, you want to finish them off for good."

Eragon shook his head immeadiately; the idea disgusted both him and Saphira. Roran understood and he did not push the matter. He led Katrina over to Saphira and together they climbed up to her saddle.

"I know you fought for us," Eragon said, turning to Lyra, "But I need to know what you say is true before I take you to the Varden."

Lyra stood, Raspen swaying on her shoulder. "I have no proof to give," she said, her voice still sore. Then she realised what he meant, remembering Murtagh's intrusions on her mind. She then said with dread; "... you mean... what he did."

"It won't take long," Eragon said, guessing what she meant.

The pain was evident on Lyra's face, but she did not want to refuse him and appear suspicious. So she nodded, quickly. "Nothing to hide," she whispered to herself.

But Eragon's mind was not painful. He simply surveyed her surface intentions, and saw to it that all she had told him was true. He withdrew, saving deeper analysis for a later time, and offered her a small smile. "Welcome aboard," he said, waving a hand in Saphira's direction. Roran and Katrina were already settled in the saddle, quite uncertainly on Katrina's part. Raspen gave a hoot and took off, settling comfortably beneath the crest on Saphira's head. The blue dragon's eyes glittered.

Lyra's mind was still churning in awe of the dragons, and the thought of flying stunned her. What would it be like? In any case, she certainly wanted to find out. She started for Saphira, Eragon close behind.

A stangled groan rose from behind them, along with a shuffling of feet. Eragon and Lyra whirled. Saphira growled.

Murtagh rose, bleeding from his left temple and clutching Zar'roc. He swayed, then smiled; a teeth baring, malevolent grin that chilled Eragon to the bone. That was not Murtagh's face. Or rather, his features were twisted into expressions that were not his own. He was lined but painless. Lyra took a step backwards. His eyes had changed. She had seen it before, when Murtagh had confronted her on the shore and Thorn had approached her. Those eyes were dark and far away, belonging to some feared being full of omniscience.

The shadow of Murtagh took a running leap as he raised Zar'roc high above his head with both hands; as he reached the pinnacle of the jump, that obscene grin spread wider when he brought his arms down and released the crimson sword to arc through the air. He landed on one knee, and did not look up to see whether Zar'roc had hit its mark.

:::::

Lyra stumbled heavily. The world churned around her. Finding herself looking up at the ceiling, she dimly realised she must have fallen. Why, though? Her vision flickered. She could feel nothing but a spreading cold in her left shoulder, Like the numbness you get in your fingers when you dig in the snow with your bare hands. Eragon was above her, lifting her head and shouting something. She assumed he was shouting - she could not hear him past the ringing in her ears. Saphira came into view, and opened her mouth in what must have been a roar... Had she gone deaf? If she had, Lyra found she didn't really care. Her thoughts were slow, lerthargic, as if she was underwater, and the world seemed to be slowing. A black haze was creeping from the corners of her vision, dragging her into sleep. Lyra let her eyes flutter closed.

Raspen's terror pierced the stupor of her thoughts, and she heard his screech louder than she had heard anything in her life.

She opened her eyes and was terribly, horribly aware. A foot of ruby blade extended from her shoulder, the other foot buried within her. She had a few seconds of detached observation; Murtagh had slunk back to the floor, Thorn had not awoken, Roran was dismounting. She noticed her hands quaking in front of her, grasping at the air around the blade. Raspen was sprawled on her chest, crying and screeching with agony. What agony? She took a hitched, gasping breath.

Then the pain hit her, and it was all she could do to scream.

:::::

"You dare come any closer? Blasted coward!" Roran yelled at Murtagh.

Murtagh was shaken. He held his hands up, to surrender, and by all accounts he seemed as shocked as they were about what happened. He continued his approach, his face pale and his eyes grim. "Eragon can't heal her alone." His words were nearly inaudible over the hatchling's frantic shrieks.

"You think I trust you want to help? You think Eragon will trust you?" Roran hefted his hammer, then winced as the girl's screams joined her dragon's.

"She won't last much longer," Murtagh insisted. Roran risked a glance behind him. Lyra had fallen against Saphira's foreleg. Even as he watched, she began to writhe and thrash worse than the hatchling. Eragon bent over her, trying to restrain her the best he could whilst still concentrating on the phrases of the ancient language he needed to use. Blood was seeping rapidly, and Roran understood the new rider was too precious to lose.

"I don't want to see her die," Murtagh hissed, "Especially so if she dies at the hands of some stubborn fool, too ignorant to let me pass! I did not throw that sword, Roran Stronghammer."

And incredulous as it sounded, Roran believed him. Maybe it was the conviction in his voice or the glare in his eyes, but whatever it was made Roran lower his hammer and ignore the insults.

Murtagh strode past him to Lyra's right side, opposite Eragon, who had heard his confrontation with Roran. "Lend me your strength then," Eragon said. "Help me to block her pain and stanch the bleeding before I pull out Zar'roc."

Murtagh complied, letting his energy meld with Eragons. But he said; "Don't bother with the pain, she wont be able to feel anything for much longer either way." Eragon didn't dispute. It was the duty of both of them to ensure the survival of their kin. Neither of them could heal Lyra alone.

As Eragon uttered the incantation, Murtagh gently extracated Raspen from Lyra's shirt. Saphira carefully snapped the hatchling up in her jaws, protecting him between her teeth like a mother crocodile. As soon as Eragon had finished speaking, Murtagh planted one hand on Lyra's chest to steady the girl, then grasped the hilt of his sword. She figured out what they were going to do and frantically tried to steel herself for it, tensing her body and screwing up her eyes, yet as soon as the blade began to grate through her shoulder, she tossed her head and kicked violently, crying without opening her mouth and biting her tongue until that familiar coppery taste flooded her throat.

She felt Murtagh strengthen the arm pinning her down, and opened her eyes to see the sword pulled clean out of her shoulder. She instantly wished it could be back where it was. The open rent burned like nothing else. The blackness crept along her vision again, and this time it took her completely.

:::::

It required all their strength, and stretched both of their knowledge of the ancient language, to heal Lyra until Eragon was confident she would survive the flight to the Varden. They worked while she was asleep, mending her crumbled collarbone and knitting the muscle back over it. Zar'roc, they discovered, had gone right through her chest to protrude inches from her back.

Eragon worried that neither of them knew how to mend severed nerves, and whilst her vessels and muscle had sewn together easily enough, she may suffer incurable side effects if one of their spells went awry. He thought of the scar Durza had given him, and the suffering it had caused. He pulled energy from the surrounding corpses, using the warmth and their last dregs of lifeforce to support his and Murtagh's spells. Roran and Saphira insisted they use their strength, too.

Finally, around noon, all that was left of the wound was a pink cut. Narrow, but still deep.

Murtagh stood and walked away towards Thorn. His red dragon had still not woken. Eragon's gaze followed him, and Murtagh said, as if guessing the question on his tongue, "He'll be alright. I'll be able to heal him myself soon enough."

Eragon nodded, remembering the way Murtagh healed Thorn so quickly during the Battle of the Burning Plains. "She's lost too much blood, and I don't know if I'll be able to replace it." He spoke to the room as a whole, watching Katrina wind bandages around Lyra's shoulder.

_Then it's best not to try. I will fly faster than the wind to the Varden, _Saphira said, turning her scaly head to face him. _For should she survive, it will mean another Rider to fight alongside us. There could be no greater aid. _

Eragon agreed. He turned to help Roran lift Lyra onto Saphira's back, then halted and turned to face Murtagh. "Why did you do this?" He asked, still suspicious. "Heal her injury, even after you caused it?"

Murtagh closed his eyes. He could not hope to explain the extent of his inprisonment to Eragon. He couldn't describe the hopelessness, the weakness that the King forced over him when he grasped at Murtagh's mind. The way his thoughts remained lucid while watching his body follow orders that he did not give it. Galbatorix commanded him through the link he had forged with the knowledge of his rider's true name, and Murtagh was forced to obey, without a wink of resistance. "There are loopholes in Galbatorix's orders. I don't want to see the death of a rider," he finally said.

Eragon nodded thoughtfully. He was grateful for Murtagh's help, whatever the reason for it was. He glanced at Roran, who was strapping Lyra's legs into the saddle. The girl was conscious, gazing between Eragon and Murtagh with glazed eyes. This brought another, likely more important question to Eragon. "You can just let us leave?" Eragon asked, warily.

Murtagh looked up at him with a dark grimace. "Of course not. I can't simply ignore my oaths." One hand was gripped around Zar'roc, the other massaging his bruised chest.

They all froze, Saphira uttering a warning growl. "You don't want to fight us again now. You'll only lose," Eragon said.

"The only reason you were able to strike me down was Thorn's defeat. Don't aggravate me, Eragon." Murtagh stood, tapping Zar'roc against the cavern floor.

Murtagh was not about to just give up Lyra and Raspen, Eragon realised. Their careful truce was shattered. The newest rider was no longer so close to death, and Murtagh was an enemy once again. But - Murtagh didn't stand a chance against them all. Not without Thorn. And he knew it. If he attacked, Saphira would simply whip him aside with a swipe of her tail.

_What exactly are we waiting for? _Saphira said. _He cannot stop us._

She was right, of course. Murtagh alone could do little against Saphira. Eragon quickly climbed up to the front of her saddle. As Saphira loped to the opening, raising her grand wings, Eragon looked back at Murtagh, standing beside his fallen partner. He thought he saw a thin, grim smile playing about his face before Saphira launched them into the blinding sunlight

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A/N. Yeah, Zar'roc definitely gets around. This might be my favourite chapter so far. Desperate duels and massive dragon brawls are the best kind of writing fun.

Oh, and yes; Eragon forgets about Sloan and he dies that slow, horrible death by starvation he has always deserved :)


End file.
